


We Gotta Go

by twinkinu



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rick has to calm him down, Stan has a panic attack, and he's an asshole about it, then rick has feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkinu/pseuds/twinkinu
Summary: “Rick, we gotta leavenow.”Desperation bled into his tone, his cries losing their panicked edge and becoming only weak, vulnerable whimpers. “They’re gonna kill me. They’re gonna try to kill you, too. Ricoknowsme, he’s not gonna send anyone that can’t take me in a fight. They’re gonna torture me, then they’re gonna kill me, then they're gonna kill you and take all our money and I’ll- Fuck, I’ll never make millions- I can’t- I-I won’t- I’ll never gohome,Rick! I can’t go home if I’mdead!”





	We Gotta Go

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wanted to write up quickly, but it turned out a lot longer than anticipated. 
> 
> Completed as an exercise—the entire piece is written without using any forms of the verb "to be" 
> 
> ((excluding dialogue, because I didn't want to alter the characters' speech patterns))

“Jesus fuckin’ H _ , _ Lee.”

After a sudden jolt of movement and a pained gasp from the man beside him pulled Rick from sleep, the scrawny scientist sat up in bed with a groan of malcontent. “I mean, wh-what the hell? I was—I’m trying to sleep,  _ m’hijo.” _

He turned to get a proper look at his partner, wondering what had him acting so goddamn  _ shook. _ The guy usually slept like a rock. Now, he trembled as if under the influence of Blunferg powder and hyperventilated as if intoxicated by Plubbish juice, but Rick knew for a  _ fact _ that neither drug existed within light years of the pair’s current location; he made a point of staying away from the stuff because their highs, although powerful, always ended in extremely violent anxiety attacks—

_ Oh. _

“Oh, Jesus fuckin’  _ H,  _ Lee!”

Rick lunged, hand outstretched, and grasped his boyfriend’s shoulder.

But Stan didn’t know that it was Rick.

He reacted instantly, surging forward and striking the scrawny scientist in the gut with a large, powerful fist.

_ “¡Ay!” _

“Holy shit! Rick! I-I didn't- I thought you were-” He sat up straight and reached for Rick (who sat on his knees, folded over and cradling his stomach, a posture that rendered him one-third his natural size and vulnerable, frail), but his trembling hand was swatted away with an embittered slap. 

“It’s— _ fuck— _ it’s fine.” He spoke in a quiet mumble to conceal the way his throat closed around every word, tempting him to cough or gag or retch or  _ something _ to help his insides shift more comfortably into place after accommodating such a strong, well-trained punch. “B-barely felt it.”

_ “Shit. _ Shitshitshitshitshit, I didn't- They’re gonna- I’m gonna-  _ Fuck, _ we gotta-”

“Spit it out, Lee.”

“We gotta go,” he said suddenly, standing so fast that his head spun and he had to grasp the wall for support.

Rick scrambled off the bed as the burly young man sunk to the floor in a shivering, whimpering mess. The pain in his stomach had dulled from intense aching to bearable discomfort, so he only winced a little bit as he knelt beside his boyfriend and reached for his shaking shoulders, hovering inches above in hesitation to make contact. 

“I-is it okay if I touch you?” He decided that if he ended up with a broken nose from laying unwelcome hands on Stanley  _ again, _ he would lose the right to call himself a genius. 

“No.”

Rick bristled. He’d asked and everything—what the fuck had he done wrong?

(Okay, so Rick knew that unexpected physical contact scared his boyfriend during anxiety attacks, and Stan couldn’t be blamed for that. But he  _ always  _ consented to touch when given fair warning, and once allowed, it would actually provide quite a bit of comfort. The rejection meant that Stan’s anxiety consumed him more completely than Rick had ever seen before, and accepting that was fucking  _ scary— _ so Rick decided to take offense rather than face the gravity of his boyfriend’s emotional state.)

“Why  _ not?” _

“We- There’s no time, I-” He took in a series of short, uneven breaths in hopes that he might soothe his lungs into cooperating, supplying the brain with enough oxygen to form complete thoughts, but he quit after several attempts and opted instead to stand back up, scrubbing tears from his eyes with one hand and grabbing his bag with the other. He repeated, “We gotta go.”

“Hey, woah,  _ what?  _ Go where? Wh-wh-what’s the matter with you?”

Stan trembled like an earthquake as he haphazardly shoved clothes into his bag from what littered the motel floor. “We gotta go,” he said again, as if he only knew how to express that single desperation.

Before long, he fell again to the floor, a shivering heap of nerves and distress.

“Stanley, what the hell is wrong? It’s the middle of the fucking night. There’s not—there’s nowhere for us to go. Y-you’re scaring me,  _ querido.” _

“They’re gonna find us,” Stan gasped. “We gotta leave town. We gotta go, we can’t-” He cut himself off with an aborted sob and dug his nails into his thighs. “They’re gonna find us. They’re gonna find  _ me.”  _

Every tense muscle in Rick’s body released at once. Realization washed over him like liquid smoke. 

It happened just yesterday—they had narrowly escaped the grasp of two ugly thugs who under-witted but outgunned Stan and Rick by a long shot. Even so, Rick suspected his boyfriend didn’t fear the goons themselves, but rather the man for whom they worked: Rico Paniagua, a man who fostered an age-old grudge against Stanley, a man Stanley had thought he managed to escape until two of his cronies recognized the strong-jawed vagrant walking the Arizona streets and decided to kill him and bring their boss the body. 

Despite their weapons and their advantage of the element of surprise, Stan and Rick won the fight with relative ease; once Stan had recovered from his initial shock, he managed to distract the instigators long enough for Rick to disarm them and knock them out with the butts of their own guns.

They let the guys live. In the rush and excitement of getting away, Stan forgot that they shouldn’t have.

Rick stepped carefully forward. “Hey, okay, it’s okay. We can—yeah, we’ll skip town in the morning.”

Stan was calmer, now, in the sense that he had stopped actively trying to escape, but he still shook like a leaf, his eyes shut tight as he tried to focus on his partner’s words. “I- We can't- There’s no  _ time.” _

“W-we have time, Lee. Nothing but time over here. Let’s go back to sleep, and in the morning we can talk about this—th-this ‘leaving’ shit. We’ll pack up and figure out where we wanna go. Y-you wanna go north, Lee? You wanna keep going north?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“J- _ Jesus, _ Lee, you’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”

Stan nodded.

“F-fuckin’ A, man, okay, here’s—here’s the plan. I’ll blow you to help you relax or something, but we gotta go to bed.”

“We don’t have time.”

“Don’t—Hey. Don’t flatter yourself, babe. It doesn't take that long.”

“Rick, we gotta leave  _ now.” _ Desperation bled into his tone, his cries losing their panicked edge and becoming only weak, vulnerable whimpers. “They’re gonna kill me. They’re gonna try to kill you, too. Rico  _ knows _ me, he’s not gonna send anyone that can’t take me in a fight. They’re gonna torture me, then they’re gonna kill me, then they're gonna kill you and take all our money and I’ll- Fuck, I’ll never make millions- I can’t- I-I won’t- I’ll never go  _ home, _ Rick! I can’t go home if I’m  _ dead!” _ His inhales became shorter and shorter, sharp sips of breath as the man’s lungs refused to cooperate and he took to hyperventilating again.

Rick rushed the rest of the way to Stan’s side, dropping to his knees. “Lee— _ Hey. _ Look at me, Lee,” he commanded, snapping his fingers by his face to draw Stan’s attention up to his line of sight. Then, he held out a hand, palm-up, free for Stan to take if he decided that he wanted touch. “H-hold my hand.” 

Stan hesitated for a fraction of a second, but when he decided to thread his calloused fingers through Rick’s, he did so wholeheartedly and squeezed.

“They’re not gonna come get us overnight, okay? It’s four fuckin’ thirty; someone would’ve shown up already. Right?”

He swallowed thickly and averted his gaze, but Rick squeezed his hand to re-establish eye contact.

“You gotta—you gotta sleep, babe. You’re no good to drive, so unless you’re gonna decide to let me drive your car all of a sudden, we’re staying in town until you—u-until you get some goddamn rest. So you need to calm down.” 

“I can’t just- I’m not gonna  _ calm down, _ jackass.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, not, n-not by yourself. You big fucking oaf. Christ, just lemme—C-can you stand up?”

“No.”

“Okay, fine, j-just lie down here, then. Yeah, good, now—now breathe.”

Stan sucked in a shaky, shallow breath, the most air he could manage to take in, and blew it out in a slow, wavering stream. He repeated the process several times, still hanging onto Rick’s hand as the scrawny man coached him gently (well, as gently as a crass criminal like Rick Sanchez could manage).

Once his breaths evened out and his muscles relaxed, Rick squeezed his hand and asked, “Better?”

Instead of answering, Stan yanked on his partner’s hand, bringing Rick crashing into his chest. He grunted at the impact on his stomach (which ached whenever he moved his torso and would most  _ definitely _ bruise later), but recovered quickly and wrapped his arms around Stan’s neck.

“It’s not, uh- I’m just-”

“Yeah,” Rick smiled, snuggling against his partner’s chest. “I know the drill.” 

Stan didn’t get panic attacks too often, but when he did, and when he let Rick touch, this always calmed him down the most.

Pressure. Hugging, holding, running his hands along Stan’s sides and brushing soft kisses against his neck. Whispering helped, too—sweet Spanish nothings,  _ Cálmate. Respira, cariño. Estás seguro, cariño. Solo respira.  _

He could monitor Stan’s heartbeat with his head against his chest, and after about fifteen minutes of Rick’s attention, his heart thumped at a normal rate and his breathing slowed to deep, well-controlled inhales and exhales. Rick almost fell asleep himself, but Stanley tensed back up without warning and shocked the young genius awake.

“Shhh, shhh,” he insisted, curling up tighter on top of his boyfriend. Rick would do just about anything for Stan, including restarting the whole calming process, but he  _ really  _ hoped he wouldn't have to.  _ “No te preocupes, papi. Estás seguro.”  _

“No, Rick, I-”

He groaned loudly.  _ “¡Por Dios!” _ he whined, and Stan thumped him gently on the head.

“Rick, sit up.” The usual smooth, husky tone of Stan’s voice had returned, which meant the attack had ended. So why wouldn’t he just go to sleep already? 

Curious enough to actually obey, Rick sat up and straddled his partner’s hips, hands on his chest, frowning down at him with a confused crease in his brow. 

“Lemme see it,” he mumbled. Shame flickered across his eyes.

_ “¿De qué chingados hablas?” _

“I don’t speak Spanish, moron.”

Rick huffed. “I-I asked what the fuck you were talking about. You want me to get my dick out or something?”

“Holy shit, Sanchez, no. I don’t want ya to get your dick out.”

“Yeah, I-I thought that’d be weird, ‘cause usually I’m the one wanting you to get  _ your _ dick out-”

“Oh my God, Rick! Lemme see your stomach!”

Rick’s face fell. Silence imposed the room. “Uh—why?”

Stan sighed, offered no answer, and sat up so that Rick was on his lap, carefully peeling the loose tank top from his torso and revealing the dark skin underneath. A flush of redness spread across the scrawny man’s abdomen, coupled with gentle swelling and the promise of a dark bloom of purple-black to spread within the next few days. 

“Moses,” Stan breathed, guilt clear on his face. “Babe, I’m so-”

“Shut up,” Rick quickly interrupted. Stan frowned. “I mean, y-you don’t have to—don’t be sorry, Lee. ‘S fine.”

“Rick, I punched you in the gut.”

“Well, you can’t change it, so—so don’t fuckin’ worry about it.” 

Unsatisfied with Rick’s attempt (or lack thereof) at consolation, Stan just sighed and laid back down, closing his eyes in resignation.

But Rick knew better than to think that Stan might manage to fall asleep. His mind may have settled down and regained its ability to rationalize, but something else bothered him now—despite his blank, unreadable expression, Rick could clearly see the distress beneath his eyelids. 

Fuck, what happened to Rick? Two years ago, he wouldn’t’ve given a flying shitstain about whether this guy still felt ‘bothered.’ Who the hell cared about  _ feelings, _ anyway?

This guy had broad shoulders, big arms, hard muscles with some softness around the edges, long legs, thick thighs, a strong jaw, and rough, calloused fingers. He had a car, he lied like nobody’s business, he fought well, and he didn’t have a damn thing to lose, so he never bothered Rick with any stupid hangups like ‘family’ or ‘friendship’ or ‘basic intrinsic morals.’ To top it all off, he had a gorgeous cock and he didn’t get prudish about putting it to good use.  _ That’s _ why Rick kept him around. It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with  _ feelings, _ God fucking dammit. He didn’t even  _ like _ feelings; he didn’t  _ want _ feelings, but guess fucking what?

Feelings happened anyway.

Feelings didn’t care whether Rick wanted them or not.

So now Rick had to make his boyfriend feel better; as annoying as that sounded, he knew that letting Stan feel shitty all night would annoy him even more.

God, when the fuck did Rick start  _ caring? _

“Uh... Hey, if you’re not tired yet, that blowjob offer’s still on the table.”

Stan took in a long, slow breath. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Not yet,” Rick purred, running a hand down Stan’s side.

He huffed and shoved Rick’s hand away. “No,” he insisted.

Rick apologized under his breath, moving off Stan and lying on the floor beside him. He’d really hoped that the blowjob thing would work. Now he had to  _ actually _ have feelings—out loud. In the open.

_ Oh, boy. _

“L-l-listen, Lee, I caught you off guard. It’s not your fault, alright? Don’t worry about it.”

Stan opened his eyes. “I wasn’t thinkin’. Ya just grabbed me, and I thought it was Rico, and-”

“I know. I-it’s fine. Really.”

“Yeah, but it’s  _ not.” _

“Why not?”

“Because ya get hurt all the time! Good God, Rick, just last month I had to give ya stitches because you went out and picked a fight with some lowlife who said ya looked gay.”

“Well, yeah, Lee, I-I’m a huge jerkass and—and I pick fights with people. That’s what I do.”

“And I like that about ya; y’know I do. But I’m s’posed to protect ya. That’s, like... I dunno, that’s my job. S’the only thing I can ever get right.”

“So?”

“So what the fuck am I s’posed to do when  _ I’m  _ the one that hurts you, Rick?! What the fuck happens when  _ I’m _ the one that put that fuckin’ bruise there?”

The men stared at each other for a long while, Stan’s discomfort growing as his vulnerability sinked in, Rick’s confusion turning to indignance as he managed to piece together what Stan was feeling.

“J-Jesus, Lee,” he said finally. “Is... Is that seriously what this is about?”

Stan sighed. “Look, I don’t wanna talk about it. I mean, it doesn’t matter; let’s just go to bed.” He stood and started toward the bed, lying on top of the sheets while making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact with his boyfriend.

But Rick couldn’t leave this alone. Not now.

“Lee, you didn’t know it was me. For Christ’s sakes, you were having a fucking panic attack and I grabbed your shoulder. Of course you—I-it’s no wonder you tried to defend yourself.”

“Good night, Rick.”

“No. Fuck, no. I’m not sleeping until you stop being such a fucking pussy.”

_ “Rick-” _

“You  _ do _ protect me, Stan. Y-you keep me from getting in over my head. You turn into a fucking animal when you’re in a fight—wh-which is, is fucking  _ hot _ , by the way—and you carry me when I’m too drunk to walk and you—you’re patient with me when I throw my fucking temper tantrums, right? If you weren’t so goddamn good at protecting me, I wouldn’t protect you back, you f-fucking  _ moron.  _ I-I take care of you because you take care of me.”

Stanley had sat back up by now, watching his rambling partner carefully.

“I-I mean,  _ fuck. _ Jesus shitting  _ God, _ Lee, I-I don’t waste time with people who don’t give me a reason to stay. That’s why I cover your ass in fights and keep you from getting lost in your head; i-it’s not out of the goodness of my heart. You  _ know _ me. You  _ know _ I’d be out the door the  _ second _ you laid a hand on me if I—i-if I didn’t  _ love _ your halfwit, fatuous ass.”

Stan blinked. His brainwaves flatlined and the blood in his veins froze and boiled simultaneously. “Um.”

Rick rolled his eyes and blew a piece of hair out of his face, crossing his arms casually. “What?”

“I think ya might’ve made a mistake there, buddy. Come again?”

“Yeah, I love you, Lee. I-I love the fucking ass off of you, alright? I hope you’re fucking happy, too, because I didn’t even believe in love until I met  _ you,  _ you fucking—y-you idiotic piece of shit. I’ve been spending too much time with you and I, a-and I caught your stupid.”

Stan just gaped.

Rick stared back, arms crossed in a childish pout.  _ “What?” _

“That’s...” Stan breathed out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” 

“Don’t be a sap,” Rick snapped, bitter as ever.

“C’mere.”

“No.”

“Rick, c’mere.” He opened his brawny arms up wide, wiggling his fingers and beckoning for Rick to get in bed.

Rick turned a shoulder, nose in the air. “No.”

“Rick.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Come. Here.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“I’ll let ya blow me.” 

Rick arched his brow, glancing over his shoulder to look at his smug boyfriend. When he found himself unable to hold back a smile, he crawled into the bed (making a show of reluctance) and planted a kiss to the corner of his partner’s mouth. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “F-fuckin’ moron. Goddamn piece of shit.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Stan ran a hand through his boyfriend’s hair, smiling comfortably, finally at peace. “I love you, too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments!!! I yearn for approval!!


End file.
